


A Moment To Run

by suncity



Series: A Moment For Us All [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I am not sorry, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Rivalry, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, some eccentric shit, straight? what straight?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 11:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18475723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suncity/pseuds/suncity
Summary: "Then it's good I got to you first."Javier snorted. "Good?""I had the pleasure of meeting you, didn't I?"–––By choice and out of boredom, Javier hightailed it out of camp with Hosea to visit a powerful family's gun factory to arrange a weapons-dealing and fencing job. Naturally, he didn't think much of this strange rich man who had a strange accent and a strange look in his eye being the one up for the job – but one thing led to another, and time unknowingly spent with the world's most peculiar man opened up secrets that entailed more than a simple rich person playing outlaw.Now caught in the crossfires of a deepening gang war, Javier tried his best not to let Edevane Pritchard be the only reason to why his life was flipping downside-up, for the better and the worse.





	A Moment To Run

**Author's Note:**

> Some spoilers, my friends, proceed with caution! This fic begins in Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook, under the assumption Arthur took his sweet, sweet time chasing missions across the map and leaving a month or two to spend in Horseshoe.

He never liked staying put.

It wasn’t like he was constantly on the run – once, in times he could vaguely recall, he didn’t have to sleep with one eye open. That lasted as fast as Bill’s alcohol tolerance, though, when he decided to throw himself into this life. 

Running with Dutch was exactly that – running. In the calmer days, they stood a chance of taking up camp for half a year before the Pinkertons sniffed them out. Now, Javier barely slept before the witching hours in case bullets came raining on them and they had to pick up and start over for the umpteenth time. Blackwater spun them into a spiral, and when they happened upon Colter, there was a second where Javier believed they were spinning down a rabbit hole. Whether it was the cold or his sheer faith in Dutch, that thought disappeared as quickly as it came.

Now that they’ve put up in Horseshoe, Javier had half a mind that this blind optimism would do him well and not screw him over. The ride back to camp from Blackwater with Sean yapping endlessly was harrowing, but oddly, the entire way back he could feel a new page turning. He didn’t expect it to last long, heck, he didn’t want it to, but the change of pace was refreshing. Instead of hauling their asses about the entire continent, he had time. There was no crunch to hinder his exploration, and he was determined to see much while they still had time. While he still had time.

This, of course, evolved to long days spent away from camp; riding out at the break of dawn, seeking new poisons; marking his map for every town he’s visited, every O’Driscoll he shot, every dollar he spent, every whore he fucked. Some would call this running, and while that was right, Javier didn’t think himself such an idiot he’d be running from a brief period of stability – no, it was just that he didn’t like staying put.

Whenever he rode out, it wasn’t to hunt. That was Charles’ thing, and no-one else could do that man better, so there was no point in it. Sometimes, Dutch or someone gave him a lead to follow up on; other times, he tried to find his own leads to follow up on. He always came back to camp with pockets lined with moolah or a new target, so barely anyone complained about his absence. 

That time, it was Hosea who approached him with a lead. Javier had just come back form a merry time shooting up a homestead and robbing the place clean – he sat by one of the fires, noodling aimlessly as he watched the camp live around him. It was quiet, as it always was during day time. Susan was working the girls to the bone, as always. Uncle was sleeping off a life’s worth of regrets, as always. Arthur rode in for a split second to drop off a bison’s pelt and left right after, as always.

And Hosea? In the day, the old man usually forewent his coat in favor of casualwear and sat about reading books, playing chess, or gauging conversations with Dutch. Other times, like times when he rode out, times like this, he wore his coat and had a glint in his eye. In this look, he approached Javier, a rifle and a repeater hanging off his back.

“Are you busy, son?” Hosea asked, standing behind one of the logs. Javier was almost too embarrassed to say ‘no’, but he shrugged nonetheless.

“Haven’t got anything to do yet,” Javier said as he slowed the pace of his strumming. “Just… resting my legs is all. I’m getting old.”

At that, Hosea laughed. “And how old are you again?”

Javier grinned wolfishly. “Twenty-six.”

“Well, you should be pushing up daisies then!”

Javier shook his head with a laugh. “You wish.” He then set aside his guitar, gingerly – if there were things he actually tended to with the care of a mother, it was his guitar, his guns, Boaz, and his appearance. Others would be better off in the hands of a gator.

Javier rolled his neck, working out a kink, and gradually rose to his feet. In front of Hosea, he made a show of kicking his legs and flexing his shoulders, popping joints that were perfectly fine given his youth, maintaining eye contact with the older man all the while.

Hosea’s eyes twinkled brightly with amusement at the jeering display. “I guess this grandpa needs sleep, not a job. Should I get Uncle?”

Javier groaned, not with disdain. Uncle’s snoring echoed throughout camp, despite the man himself taking his rest by the cliffs. With luck, he’d roll right off. “You know what? I feel spry now. Right spring chicken-like, y’know?”

Hosea’s lips curled into a smirk. “Sure I do.”

“Right. So how about we forget Uncle, and, I dunno…” Javier waved a hand at the near-empty camp. “Gimme a reason to bolt before I go swing myself?”

Hosea smiled and motioned for Javier to follow him. The two walked across the camp, towards their mounts – Boaz grazed by his lonesome, flanked only by The Count and Silver Dollar.

The older man came up to his pearly horse, drawing an apple from his sling bag and feeding it to him. “You know the Pritchard Arsenal, right?”

Javier nodded, unholstering his Cattleman revolver. On the barrel, carved ornately, were the initials ‘P.A’. “Their guns are in Valentine all the way to Saint Denis. Hard to miss.”

“Right, and all over,” Hosea said. “Well, one of their gun mills’ right outside of Saint Denis. It ain’t exactly fancy, so you can miss it easy. And have I told you how one of ‘em used to run with us?”

Javier widened his eyes. The Pritchards were an immensely wealthy family, due to getting their hands dirty in the Industrial Revolution and cranking out firearms like crazy – he heard somewhere that each family member was slated with a factory to run since birth, which meant Dutch had very likely worked alongside a billionaire. “Us? Ran with a Pritchard?”

“Well, it was back when it was only Dutch, Arthur and I,” Hosea reminisced, nodding at Dutch, who was hunched over a book, reading to the drone of some stuffy classical tune. “Mallory Pritchard was a right good feller. Fenced goods and gave us an entire armory in return – he left America once we started getting big, back across the pond. But one day, we get a letter coming in from him, telling us to check the docks for a shipment. We show up at the docks, expecting a set-up when we were led into some shady warehouse, and there were crates underneath a tarp. We shucked ‘em off and…”

“Guns?” Javier guessed, and from the grin on Hosea’s face, it was most likely right. The next second, Hosea confirmed it by nodding vigorously.

“Bucketloads. Top notch, too – real expensive stuff. He smuggled a heck of a lot for us until we had to get away from the docks,” Hosea scratched his chin. “Reckon he couldn’t track us, ‘til recently.” From his pack, he produced an envelope, neatly pressed shut with a pretty but already broken red seal that signified some form of affluence. He handed it to Javier, who accepted it and fished out the letter.

“Turns out, the mill around here’s operated by Mallory’s older brother, Evan Pritchard,” Hosea tapped at the signature on the bottom of the letter, aptly signed ‘E.P’. “I’m very sure this was from our friend Mister Evan. Got the gist?”

“Yessir.” Javier skimmed the letter. The handwriting was cursive and complex, and he strained to complete reading; the man who taught him how to read was standing right before him, after all. Javier never could read as well as the rest – words, in _English_ , blended together on paper, but he managed. This one branched off into tangents, using flowery prose to repeat phrases to prolong simple sentences. It was, frankly, annoying and confusing. “So he’s gonna smuggle Mallory’s weapons for us?”

Hosea grinned. “Dutch would be real pleased to work with a Pritchard again.”

“I’m sure,” Javier screwed his face up, considering. From Hosea’s recounting, it seemed to Javier that this whole deal with Mallory Pritchard ceased quite some time ago – if Dutch of all people trusted him enough he would be eager to jump at the opportunity to work with him again, then Mallory shouldn’t be a problem. It was just the matter of the pause in smuggling that gave room for second thoughts. Plus, Hosea acted as they’ve never dealt with Evan Pritchard before. “Are you sure we can trust _this_ Mister Pritchard, though?”

“That’s what I’m heading out to see,” Hosea explained. “Poke around, test the waters. If we get results, I’m thinking a fence with a steady flow of weapons they can hand out without having to worry would be worth the effort.”

“Sure would,” Javier agreed, fingers brushing his holster consciously. His guns were far from low quality – he nursed them almost obsessively, but his lead-spitting babies were far from perfect. No matter how hard he polished, they would always look worn with rust from age – they shoot bullets the same as the newer models, though, so Javier never really thought to purchase new ones. And he never trusted the firearms that lowlife bounty hunters and robbers dropped enough to take them, too.

Javier cleared his throat. “So you want me to ride out with you to the gun mill?”

“Yep,” Hosea confirmed. “Figured it would be best to have another man with me, in case things go… awry.”

“I get it.” Javier gestured at Boaz. “And I also rather we leave now, ‘fore I start collecting dust.”

“Works for me.” Hosea nodded and mounted up alongside Javier. They rode into the thick of the woods, and Javier felt the weight on his shoulders be left behind with the camp. He didn’t hate camp, because Dutch was always there, and there was no possible way to make Javier hate the man who saved his life and turned him from a feral nobody into a man. Dutch’s man.

Still, he grew up living off of adrenaline and action. Staving that addiction off and succumbing to the drabness of staying behind in camp to mope would hit harder than any bullet.

There hadn’t even been a day since Javier last left camp, but he sat atop Boaz with the weight of a feather. Javier and Hosea trekked their way towards Lemoyne, but when they came up to Saint Denis, Hosea steered Silver Dollar away from the industrial city’s entrance and they continued on a dirt path that winded away from Lemoyne’s glimmering capital.

“Explosive and flammable gunpowder don’t jibe well with a whole town of people, y’see,” Hosea elaborated as they rode. “Mallory’s factory was half a day’s ride from the closest town. One of his workers mishandled a musket and set it off – they doused it before the fire ate up the entire place, though. Old Pritchard was in a helluva tizzy when we checked up on him.”

The way Hosea talked about Mallory–the little smile of reminiscing that curved his lips and the faraway look that clouded his gaze–made Javier think this partnership went further beyond a simple fence-and-outlaw relationship. Whatever association they had, Hosea must have treasured it greatly.

“And this Pritchard’s factory? S’it half a day off too?” 

“Oh, no, dear boy, we’re coming up on it right now.”

Just in time, the huge, hulking buildings arranged in a complex rose over the horizon. They both have ridden where the marsh began to meet firmer land. Round and metal chimneys churned out thick black smoke, making it at home with Saint Denis’ assortment of factories. The buildings were constructed like a typical factory, all cement and gray and sad. The biggest construction harbored the entrance, which was through a grand and rusted gate, enclosing an entry courtyard where coaches were parked and employees strode about. Guards stood in patrol, holding impressive rifles that glowed under the sun’s pressure. The workers weaved in and out irregularly, most were for a smoke break – considering the state of most factory workers Javier glimpsed in Saint Denis, this laxity was rather uncommon. What’s more, was that Javier could spot a number of women donning the same utility coveralls as the men, albeit with all their hair wound up and tucked securely into a flat cap. 

Norm stated women shouldn’t be in a laborious workforce, but there they were, chatting casually with their colleagues with a lit cigarette in hand, looking plenty satisfied. A sense of victory bloomed in Javier’s chest – at least one rich person was using their privilege to rub it in the system’s face. 

The guards disregarded them as they entered the courtyard, merely throwing a dismissive glance at them as they passed the gates. It wasn’t worth the effort to trouble two ragged-looking men – it would take more numbers to storm such a big factory, and that coupled with the fact that firing shots would likely set the factory ablaze explained the guards’ relaxed monitoring. 

The employees continued to mingle among themselves, blissfully ignorant of Hosea and Javier parking their mounts by the coaches. 

“I don’t remember factory workers being so…” Javier leaned closer to Hosea. “Ah – not depressed.”

“It’s a gun mill,” Hosea supplied. “Hazard pay is off its rocker. It runs its course.”

“That is… actually understandable. Huh.”

Shaking his head, bemused, Hosea walked through the double doors that swung much like a saloon's batwing doors. Javier followed suit, noting the looks the workers cast his way – some were curious, others were no more than repulsed. Javier put on a show of toughness and tipped his chin up. He was good at this; acting. He was proficient enough sometimes he actually believed in his character.

The two strode into what seemed to be the lobby; it was about as clean as you would expect a factory to be, with workers in rubber boots tamping down dust and sending the particles flying. The air had a thin black sheen to it, and the mere act of breathing made Javier feel filthy. There was virtually no furniture in the lobby – the employees merely lingered about, walking back and forth in a constant stream. The only furniture in the room was a wide receptionist’s desk, with a plump woman in utility coveralls operating behind it. 

“Place has a receptionist, but no janitor,” Javier observed snidely, sliding his boot across the floor. There was the slightest hint of a white tile before it was polluted once more. Hosea didn’t reply; he probably didn’t hear Javier, after all, the buzz of conversation in addition to the incessant sounds of millwork filled the atmosphere. 

Hosea stepped over to the receptionist’s desk, and Javier deposited himself beside the older man.

Hosea cleared his throat once, to get the attention of the clerk – expectedly, it didn’t work. He cleared his throat again. No response.

“Excuse me?” Hosea tried again. The receptionist remained decidedly oblivious, absently thumbing through a document. 

“Let me,” Javier offered, leaning against the desk while Hosea shifted aside. Javier’s eyes scanned his immediate proximity until he noticed the cup that served as a makeshift pencil holder. Casually, he reached over to tip it. The contents spilled onto the file the receptionist was perusing, lead sliding over the paper to make rows of asymmetrical lines – the receptionist gasped, and finally looked up.

“Hello there,” Hosea spoke as Javier snorted, then pressed his mouth to his hand to keep from laughing. “You’ll have to forgive my friend, he’s–ah–a little brusque.” 

At that, Javier huffed a terse chuckle. The receptionist’s gaze switched from Hosea to Javier for a few times in puzzlement, before she finally settled down.

“What did y’all want?” she drawled. Hosea rifled through his pack and fumbled for the envelope, emptied of the letter but with the initials of the sender and the address. The receptionist accepted it and scrutinized the envelope with a raised eyebrow.

“E.P?” she examined, to which Hosea inclined his head. The receptionist pursed her lips and inspected the address closer, until her eyes widened, as if something just clicked in her mind.

“Ah. The factory address,” the receptionist said matter-of-factly. She turned her gaze to Hosea. “And you–well, one of you–must be…”

After pulling a compilation of documents and flicking through it, the receptionist finally made a confirming noise.

“Connor Galloway?” She glared pointedly at Hosea, because obviously. Arthur would sooner have sex with Micah than Javier would find a Mexican with a name like that.

“That’s me,” Hosea said, then waved at Javier’s direction. “This is an associate of mine.”

The receptionist nodded. “I’d direct you to his office, but Mister Pritchard is probably down in his workshop. Just go in the factory and turn left, take the stairs. Head down two flights and through the blue door – his workshop’s down the hallway to the right of the boiler room.”

Judging the look on Hosea’s face, the man was as startled as Javier was. He expected a cold exchanging of words with a posh businessman in some unfairly spotless office, not in some obscure workshop beside the _boiler room_ for Christ’s sake. 

Hosea seemed to recover a whole lot quicker. “All right. We’ll be gettin’ on now.”

It took a moment for Javier to collect himself and follow Hosea into the factory, but when he did, he had a whole host of questions lining up to be fired.

“Connor Galloway?” Javier snorted. It seemed they’d already accumulated a number of fake names since their humble beginnings; on the back of his mind, Javier made it a point to sniff out as many fake names as he could.

“It was our name back when we ran with Mallory,” Hosea reminisced with a smile. They wandered over to a set of blue doors, a crude sign made from a chipped wooden plank signifying the stairs to the boiler room hanging above it. As they did, a black worker with one of his coverall straps undone passed by, casting a cigarette to the ground and digging his heel into it. 

The worker smiled brightly at them. “G’day, fellers.”

When the man went off and meandered towards the stations, Javier and Hosea exchanged glances.

“I’m just waiting for one of ‘em to come up, say hi, and then stab me in the face,” Javier quipped. The workers weren’t preternaturally cheery; they were about as contented as one would be in this country. Just – not as at ease.

“I should have known,” Hosea said with a small chuckle when Javier sidled next to him. “Mallory was always an odd feller. He wore his big suits and hat just fine, but on odd days you’d see him working alongside his boys. First time we used his guns in a robbery, we got him his share, and he used ‘em all to buy packs of cigarettes for his workers – Dutch was pissed, but I knew somewhere inside he found it funny. Would make sense if he took after his brother.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Javier confessed, surveying the factory room with thumbs tucked in his pants. The air here was thicker with the black sheen, and speaking felt like thousands of years worth of pollution sticking to his tongue, but it had to be said. The employees, understandably, weren’t smoking cigarettes inside, but they still talked amiably amongst themselves as they worked the pieces of machinery. The little glimpse Javier got of gun-making was already quite impressive: there were woodworkers to one side, blacksmiths on the other, and people who dallied about pressing machines and other mechanical wonders Javier didn’t know of. “They don’t even look half as miserable.”

“As I gather, Matron Pritchard was a right strange one,” Hosea explained as they traversed down the stairs. As the door swung shut behind them, the noise drowned in the whirr of whatever apparatus toiled in the boiler room. The stairs were completely isolated, with only the Javier and Hosea using it. “O’ course, their daddy wasn’t around much, so they must’ve taken after their mama. From what I hear about mills overseas, they’re all a tad… ah, eccentric.”

“I can tell that much,” Javier chuckled. They arrived in the room below, but opted to continue their brief trip downwards. 

“So you’re expecting Evan to be exactly like Mallory?” Javier prodded; suspicion came easy to him – for obvious reasons, of course. It would make sense if Evan took after his mother, but it would still be justifiable if he followed in his father’s footsteps – the eldest son was bound to have to study the family trade at some point, and maybe Evan was whisked away to spend comparably more time with his father than his brothers. Maybe Evan was a staid and lethargic businessman, maybe this was a setup to turn a prized criminal like Hosea into authorities to grab for cash Evan didn’t need.

But someone had to be behind the loose restrictions that allowed the factory workers to take smoke breaks at independently-made intervals and conversed with considerable unconcern and cordiality. There was a reason against his doubts, and pride made Javier uncertain on whether he was happy or not. In the end, he decided that leaving this place with both his and Hosea’s life was preferable compared to being right about Javier’s personal doubts.

“Well, not exactly.” Hosea shrugged. “But to some degree, given the factory’s conditions, he must be slightly peculiar.” He paused. “Though….”

Javier quirked a brow. “Though?” he pressed. A-ha, so there _was_ a catch.

“The Pritchard clan must go on,” Hosea began. “Mallory himself has about seven brothers, Evan included – Mallory also has about, what, ten kids? If so, Evan’s got himself some spawn, too. Could be an older one helps him run the show.”

Part of Javier cheered at a lead, but the other filled with dread. This once more opened up the possibility of that ‘older one’ being ultimately responsible for the factory’s uncannily slack ambience, while Evan was off somewhere else scheming. 

But. Then again.

Javier clamped a hand on Hosea’s shoulder gently, after they entered the boiler room and before the latter could push open the door to where the workshop should be. There were a few windows displaying the inside, but blinds drew shut over them. There was the fuzz of pumping machinery even down there, even when the room was shrouded in darkness with the slightest red tinge. 

“Hey, Hosea – ever consider that maybe it isn’t… Evan Pritchard?”

Hosea paused in his tracks, affording Javier with a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just sayin’,” Javier continued. “You say there’s a possibility one of Evan’s kids is running things. Isn’t it more possible that that kid’s behind all this? I mean, with the factory’s mood, being down in a workshop in the crummy boiler room instead of some fancy office adds up.”

Hosea was pensive for a little while – inside, Javier whooped. He loved Hosea, he really did, and even Javier wasn’t so vain he thought he could outsmart Hosea; it was just moments like these, when he’s barely a step ahead the older man, that let Javier pat himself in the back. There wasn’t much Javier could do better in another man’s country, and when there was, well.

“That’s brilliant,” Hosea said quietly, but then glanced back up at Javier with bright eyes. “You’re brilliant! _He’s_ brilliant!”

Javier’s smile dropped for a split second. “He?”

Hosea gave no reply; instead, he pushed through the workshop’s door with the rush of a hare. Javier slipped inside before the door swung shut. The first room was sparsely decorated, with chipped white paint covering the walls – with a chiffonier, couches, and coffee table, it almost looked like a living room, with the only thing throwing off that illusion being a long, metal table in the center that looked like a surgical table.

There was a doorway leading to the second room, where a hell of a lot of clanging sourced. Something thumped, clanged, thudded, and finally, a groan.

Hosea grinned and cupped his mouth for full volume. “Ed, you stupid tyke, where are you?”

The clanging halted. There were sounds of furious fumbling, and more clanging, almost like someone was trying to wade through a sea of metal scrap. Finally, a form appeared on the doorway, and Javier’s breath hitched.

Hosea and Dutch kept a picturebook with them at all times, filled to the brim with grainy photographs from times before the gang absorbed its numbers today – Hosea had expressed Dutch was almost obsessed with taking a variety of ‘family pictures’, as he called it, with Hosea and Arthur. Dutch also liked to share these picture books with everyone, much to Arthur’s chagrin, as it contained one too many portraits of him as a younger man.

And this man? Ed, whoever he was? It was like an Arthur of mid-to-late twenties crawled right out of one of the pictures and smeared himself with gunpowder from top-to-bottom. From the headful of almost identically trimmed blonde hair to lips pressed thin and curled, the only thing that stood out as different were his eyes: they weren’t set as narrow and mean, instead sharp and angled upwards. 

And if Javier found Arthur–both present and past–attractive, he ignored what that implied of ‘Ed’. 

He wasn’t wearing the utility coveralls like the rest of his workers, instead wearing a dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbow and first two buttons undone – the informality explained the lavish ebony tailcoat draped over the arm of one of the sofas. The fabric stretched across the expanse of his body, built broad despite what Javier assumed to be a cushy upbringing – and if Javier stared, 'Ed' didn’t notice.

A great grin bloomed on the man’s face. Javier mentally crossed off ‘make Arthur genuinely grin’ from his bucket list.

“Hosea, you old crone!” ‘Ed’ crowed, and shit, suddenly he was Arthur with Sean’s accent and lilt – it was somewhat different, more sing-songy and even melodic, so Javier blamed it on how he hypothetically and maybe possibly kind of found this man somewhat fetching. Only slightly. The tiniest bit.

Hosea barked a laugh and crossed the room to accept Ed’s warm embrace, but so far, Javier already clued himself into the conjecture that they had a relationship in the past.

“Javier!” Hosea exclaimed, peeling himself from Ed while the latter hooked an arm around the older man’s shoulder. Beaming – and god, that stupid smile on that stupidly pretty face made him look like an oversized toddler turned idiot. Not that this was a problem, no sir, Javier harrumphed inwardly 

Hosea patted Ed’s shoulder thrice. “This would be Edevane Pritchard, Mallory’s godson and Arthur’s old pet project.”

Javier sputtered. “Pet project?”

“Right you are, sir,” Edevane–it’s one of those overly complex European names, so dumb, Javier thought, and no he’s not trying to jeer at the man this much because of reasons undisclosed–swept into a clumsy bow, and dear god, it’s Arthur with Sean’s accent and now he was doing Josiah’s facetious curtsy. 

No, Javier told himself, you are not supposed to find this man– _ugh_. 

“The Arthur to Arthur’s Dutch, if you would,” Edevane kindly elaborated.

“Sure,” Javier murmured, after a brief period of trying his best to decipher whatever that clusterfuck of a sentence was attempting to convey. “Sure. Okay. Whatever.”

Edevane’s smile only stretched further, unaffected by sheepishness. “Friend of yours, Mister Galloway?”

“Friend of the gang’s, Mister Pritchard,” Hosea rectified. “I’m sure you know we’ve gotten bigger since the last time we met, what… a decade ago?”

“A decade and a half, to be more precise.” Finally, he left Hosea’s side and sauntered close to Javier. Edevane offered a hand with a smile, only to be struck with some realization that caused him to drop that hand. 

“Ah – sorry, haven’t sanitized my hands yet.” Edevane picked his hand up and displayed the palm to Javier, who swallowed a cringe, as it was not at all the baby soft and smooth skin Javier came to expect from fat cats. The surface was blistered and the skin raw, red with blood from opened scabs. It looked so worn Javier wondered if Edevane could feel them at all. 

Edevane shrugged casually, dropping his hand as if it didn’t look like it’d been beaten bloody. “Work hazards, you know? Edevane Pritchard, my good sir. And don’t call me Mister Pritchard, that’s my father, his seven brothers, their father, his father before him, and so it goes on.”

Javier hooked his thumbs into his belt, not quite sure what to do with his hands when a shake didn’t seem likely. Still, he stared on into Edevane’s eyes with confidence. Under the flickering light bulbs, they were a pale green, and rather ugly due to the unfortunate lighting. Or maybe they were just ugly.

“Javier,” he supplied, cautiously. “And I would appreciate it if someone could tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Mierda, that was when Javier realized that no, Edevane’s eyes weren’t actually the color of puke when they went up like kindling. Another thing Javier realized was the almost crazed look that burned when Edevane's eyes did, and when it died down it that look lingered there, like some phantom. It would have been considerably creepier if Edevane was staring, but as it was, his eyes remained angled upwards and in its natural narrow shape. 

“You know I’m a Pritchard, right? Rich? Socially powerful? Arguably influential?” Under different circumstances, Javier would take this as a threat, but despite Edevane’s imposing form towering over the former man, the latter barely exuded any intimidating vibes. 

“Yeah,” Javier pushed, finding challenge in the smirk that played Edevane’s lips. Behind him, Javier could barely see Hosea creeping up to them and ready to defuse anything that could be brewing. “And?”

“And you walk in here with those manners towards me, with a whole room of guns behind me and my workers all ‘round me.” There was a pause, where none of the three men spoke, until Edevane barked a chuckle and clapped Javier’s shoulder with unmistakable friendliness. Behind the eccentricities, there was a warmth to the man, peculiar as he may be. “Come on, you two, into the real workshop. I need a handkerchief because Javier deserves a proper handshake and I’m sure you both have questions.”

 _A proper handshake_. Javier had seen many odd things offered to him as a reward, but a handshake for disrespecting that someone who wanted to give him a handshake was among the strangest. Regardless, he tailed behind a Hosea who carefully hid his confusion as they followed Edevane into the next room.

And when Javier passed the doorway, the sight glued him to the floor with something akin to shock and awe.

The hue of the walls and floor were the same, except every corner was doused in gray from the gunpowder that collected to mounds on the floor. Tables lined the walls, along with cabinets and display racks, all filled to the brim with firearms and ammunition. Rifles were piled callously in one table, repeaters in the next, one cabinet was full to spilling with cartridges of ammo and another had its door broken off to make space for wide toolboxes– to the far off corner on the left, was a huge container where guns of all sorts were placed similarly like garbage in a trash bin. 

The repugnant light bulb gave the whole room a creepy sheen, making the metal glint unnaturally and produce the vibe of a demented surgical chamber. It was like an armory, if it was positively filthy and also definitely haunted.

But on the table were revolvers were splayed out, one of them stood out to Javier in that it was away from the light and didn’t have that disgusting glow. It was a beautiful piece, with its wooden handle seemingly embroidered with patterns Javier had never seen on a commercial gun. From afar, it was hard to make out, but it seemed intricate and complex nonetheless. Javier made a mental note to scope it out later.

It was then that Javier also found out the reason–or a reason–for the nature of Edevane’s impressive build, when the man gathered up the rifles and repeaters laid out on the table taking up space in the middle into his arms and carried them like they were a baby onto a table pressed to their north. He dropped the guns with a clatter, and turned to Javier and Hosea, clapping his hands to free them of powder and dirt.

“Not to worry, folks, almost all the glorious wonders you see here are totally redundant,” Edevane announced, before gesturing behind them. “And there you can pull up chairs if you feel like sitting.”

The chairs were ill-suited for a shithole like this, Javier noted, with their cushions and fine mahogany makeup. They were pushed to the wall, as if rest didn’t matter very much.

“Why thank you, Ed,” Hosea gratuitously said, masking his confusion as he dragged up a chair to the table. Following his better judgment, Javier decided not to lean against the table, seeing the layers of dust that covered it. 

“I’m sure Arthur would have many questions. As do we,” Hosea said. The snide remark on Edevane’s idiosyncrasies was not lost on Javier. 

“And how is Arthur, by the by?” Edevane was fishing out something from a cabinet. A metal snuff box, with a padlock. Expecting cash to be inside, Javier stifled the urge to gape when all that was inside was a white, pristine handkerchief. At least it wasn’t stained and dirty.

“Oh, he’s splendid,” Hosea said. “I’m sure he would be pleased to see you.”

“Can we pause for a moment?” Javier urged, interrupting the other two’s impromptu conversation. He felt like a lost child, and he didn’t like it one bit. “Someone fill me in. Arthur’s pet project?”

Hosea’s eyes widened. “Oh, apologies for not explaining, dear boy – ah, you see, back when we still worked with Mallory fifteen years ago, Edevane happened to be visiting one time.”

“I remember that!” Edevane exclaimed, back turned on the other men as he cleaned his hands rather meticulously. “I was playing cowboy, right?”

“That you were!” Hosea confirmed. “See, Dutch, Arthur and I were just walking into Mallory’s office to wait for him, since we got told he was out for some business. And then we heard the most tinny ‘ _hold on there, pardner_ ’, when we opened the door. You could imagine the look on Dutch’s face when we found a boy, about as tall as a grasshopper’s kneecaps, shoving a genuine revolver in our faces. We almost had a heart attack, too – boy looked much like a tiny Arthur. Still do now.”

So the resemblance was a common conception. 

“Okay,” Javier spoke slowly. Processing. “And the pet project part?”

“He and Arthur hit it off right away. Back then it was still only three of us, and me and Dutch practically babied Arthur the entire time since we got nobody else. Ed was staying for quite some time, so Arthur took to trying to fashion him into a wee version of himself. Ed could already pass for Arthur’s brother, and so that was how we found Ed marching behind Arthur every time we came to visit. Arthur babied Ed like no tomorrow. He was always– what did he like to say again?”

“‘ _In this world, boy_ ,’.” Edevane mimicked a horrible American accent that made Javier snort with derision into his hand. “‘ _It’s shoot or get shot_ ’.”

Hosea laughed. “Arthur – he was trying to come across as this rough and tough version of Dutch. Why, both of us thought he was gonna grab Ed one night and bolt to make his own gang.” Hosea turned to look at Edevane, who was picking at his scabs with considerable ferocity. “He was devastated, Ed, _devastated_ when you were shipped back to your daddy.”

“I was, as well.” Edevane turned around with an air of finality, tossing the bloodied handkerchief into the gun bin. “Uncle Mallory was a hell of a feller. Better than my daddy ever would be. And remember I called Arthur ‘dad’ once?”

Hosea grinned. “Right terrified him too. And what a coincidence that your daddy would be, I’m guessing, Evan Pritchard?”

Edevane huffed. “His damn name is in mine.”

I knew it, Javier thought triumphantly. Crossing his legs and reclining against his seat with his gaze leveled on Hosea, he hoped the message was conveyed. 

Edevane seemed to notice, or maybe he just leaned against the table behind him across from the other two and gave Javier a knowing wink for the hell of kicking the latter’s heart into gear.

Hosea opted to remain blissfully unaware of Javier’s victorious act, instead choosing to push onto the matter at hand. “So you want to deal weapons and fence for us?”

Edevane shrugged. “If I gotta continue the family business, least I could do is choose which one.”

Hosea opened his mouth to speak, but Javier chimed in before he could. 

“How did you find us?”

Silence followed as Edevane glanced at Javier curiously. Javier met his gaze straight on.

“Hosea said your uncle couldn’t track us. How did you?”

“Ah, you’re asking the right questions,” Edevane said with a grin. Everything this man did felt so odd, yet so interesting. This man who had the outward appearance of a man who cleaned up fine, but with hands blistered to hell and the hygienic capabilities of a juvenile mule. How it tortured Javier–hiding under his bundle of his gingerly maintained fashion and cleanliness–to sit here, the only room in the world he could call a den of infidelity for its filth, and not feel that murderous. He blamed Edevane’s grin. 

Edevane reached back into the cabinet where he found the snuff box, and after fumbling with ammo boxes, he drew the surface those boxes lied on. Waltzing towards the table, Edevane then slapped a pile of dusty papers onto it.

Hosea and Javier leaned forward to sift through them, and the feel of dust squashing beneath his fingers made Javier squirm. There were newspaper clippings, photographs, and wanted posters – all of Dutch and his boys, arranged in chronological order in the pile.

Above them, Edevane scoffed. “You’ve been kicking up quite a fuss, I’m disappointed Mallory couldn’t find you.”

“Maybe he could,” Javier waved his hands at his side, letting the dust peel off. “Maybe he knows where we are now.”

Edevane looked at him, eyes intense. “Then it’s good I got to you first.”

Javier snorted. “Good?”

Edevane nodded at the Mexican. “I had the pleasure of meeting you, didn’t I?”

Silence. 

And he didn’t even have the decency to apologize for that shameless flirt, not even flush or look away. He had the audacity to continue his pinned glare on Javier, smiling, almost smug, the _bastard_.

With a woman, Javier could return the favor like surefire – hell, he had an entire arsenal of suggestive comebacks to afford those of the feminine persuasion. But with a man? No less, a man he found shamefully attractive? He was at a loss, and though he would never admit it, it was obvious. 

“ _Cabrón_ ,” Javier muttered, deciding the only course of challenging action was to not drop his gaze. 

Edevane chuckled. “I have no idea what that means, but I will take it as a compliment. Thank you.”

Thankfully, Hosea had finished sifting through the documents and saved the conversation by terminating it. “I would congratulate you on your work, Ed, if it wasn’t so easy to pull off. Frankly, I’m embarrassed for Mallory on your behalf.”

“All I had to do was get a newspaper,” Edevane said. “A few weeks ago, I was in Blackwater and saw your posters everywhere. Both of you haven’t changed a bit, could recognize you some miles away. I just did some more minimal digging.”

Hosea organized the papers once more, sliding them to Edevane once he was finished. “And does your daddy know about this offer of yours?”

“Of course not,” Edevane said, succinct. “And he would have no reason to. I’m personally offering this for you, out of my own personal effort and for benefits I wouldn’t bequeath my daddy or my family. Just my own work and I.”

Javier hummed. “There’s a catch.”

“God, you are quick. A man after my own heart.” Javier chose to ignore that, affording Edevane with a precarious glare that was returned by the other man’s amused one.

“There usually is a catch,” Hosea agreed, nodding. “What is it? Is it a job you need us to pull off?”

“Exactly,” Edevane confirmed. “But. There’s another thing.”

Hosea blinked. “And what is that?”

Edevane, pristine and polluted at the same time, dressed like a poor rich man, with the mannerisms of a textbook mad scientist, leaned over on his arms on the table and sent the dust flying. Javier winced at the particles mingling in the air, and looked up to find Edevane steadily returning his gaze. A smile crept up the other’s features.

“You’ll have to take me on the job.”


End file.
